The Little Death
by Fazkleto
Summary: Aurors Draco & Dean investigate the poisoning of Ginny Potter. Matters get out of hand when another poisoning leads to murder and Harry realises he's attracted to Draco. HD slash with HG het. A whodunnit that aims to keep you guessing right to the end.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Quotations belong to the speaker/writer, as referenced. 

**The Little Death**

_The French, too, remind us  
how even in pleasure the body dies a little: la petite mort.  
The furtive kiss on the earlobe, the flick of a tongue  
at the base of the throat— thin blade of a shudder that rises  
to the heart and nicks it like a wound, that attaches  
like a shadow. It takes so little to upset the mechanism  
of everyday life, the rapid adjustment and tumbling of gears  
from one set of teeth to another._  
From Trill and Mordant by Luisa A. Igloria (2005, Word Tech Editions.)

**Prologue**

**May 2002**  
Draco listened rather irritably to the clatter of the Healer's heels on the linoleum floor. Here he was, lying on the bed in one of those god-awful bumless gowns, and she'd swanned off somewhere, leaving a cloud of perfume behind. She returned presently, her cheerful smile revealing lipsticked teeth, with a folder clutched to her breasts. She placed the folder on her desk, then turned to him.

"Can I get you to lie on your back, please? Legs bent, feet on the bed. I need to examine your testicles again," she said, as she stepped around the bed and arrived in the general area where his bum was protruding, naked for all the world to see, or at least for _her_ to see; they were alone in the room.

Draco complied with her request, fiercely looking at the ceiling as the edge of the bed beneath his arse disappeared and the Healer stepped into the gap between his legs.

"So you've been seeing Eloise for a while now. Nearly a year. How's that going?"

The Healer had already asked this question, along with probing for details of his sexual and medical history and sticking things in his arse and cock. "I wouldn't be here if there wasn't a problem," Draco grunted; it was kind of hard to talk with someone's cold hands wrapped round his balls.

There was silence for a moment, then the Healer began to talk again. She seemed to need to fill the spaces, couldn't just let it be silent and humiliating. "Everything seems to be quite normal, no physical anomalies to be worried about." She waited for Draco to reply. When he didn't, she added, "No lingering signs of spell or physical damage to the rectum, everything in working order. Physically, you're healthy, extremely fit, though a little on the thin side."

Draco closed his eyes. This was what he had been dreading. "So what is it then? He bit me while…" he trailed off, trying not to remember.

The Healer had by now removed her hands and returned the bed to its normal state. She sat at her desk and motioned to Draco to do the same. He hopped off the bed, clutching at the gown as his arse briefly contacted cold vinyl where the mattress wasn't covered by sheets. The chair had a disposable paper wrapper on the seat, which crackled when he sat down. He shuddered, noticing how his arse felt kind of warm and slippery. Why couldn't she have spelled that muck away?

The Healer seemed to be watching him expectantly. Suddenly self conscious again, Draco rearranged the gown to cover his bits. "It must be the bites, right?" he asked.

The Healer said, "I don't think so. I think it's more likely the problem is psychosomatic-"

"I'm not doing this to myself," Draco replied impatiently. They'd already been over this. "There's a spell on me - I can feel it. It's not in my head. There's something physically there- sometimes- I don't know how to describe it. It's magic, something extra. It's from outside, it's not in my head."

The Healer smiled sympathetically. "It's natural to have this sort of response. You went through an extremely traumatising ordeal and it's to your credit that you are handling it so well-"

Draco snorted. "How else am I supposed to handle it?"

"Some people might say you're handling it a little too well. You've resumed work. Zealously, I might add. You've increased your fitness regime. Your relationship with your friends and co-workers is excellent. You're keeping the same hours, doing everything the same as before the kidnapping. The only problems you're encountering are sexual. That would suggest to me that-"

Draco started to interrupt but she cut him off, still smiling that pathetic pity smile. "You were raped and tortured for nearly a month. You endured intense pain and mental attack. You went through things that I can't even imagine. If that had happened to me, I would be a nervous wreck- I'd be in pieces, yet you attest that you are fine. You report no fear of other men, no fear of being alone in the dark, no problems at all. It's as if you have pushed the trauma to one side and pretended that it happened to someone else. And therein lies the reason for the dysfunction you've reported. You may have made yourself believe that you're alright, but somewhere in your mind you have not dealt with the rape-"

A wave of anger had been coursing through Draco's mind, growing stronger and stronger with each metre of psychobabble. She had no fucking idea. No idea at all. He couldn't even put into words what he was feeling or make up any argument to the contrary. He simply stood up, very slowly, turned and bolted from the room. He was halfway down the corridor before he remembered he was still dressed in the stupid gown.


	2. Chapter One

**Warnings:** Minor character deaths, discussion of rape and torture (not actually portrayed, just spoken of in reference), discussion of erectile dysfunction/impotence, discussion of miscarriage (not MPreg), marital infidelity, a homosexual relationship between Harry and Draco and a hetrosexual relationship between Harry and Ginny. Bad language, some violence. 

**The Little Death**

_"From Aristotle, who said (in Latin translation), "Omne animalia post coitum triste" ("all animals feel sad after sex") to the various hygiene movements of the 19th century, people have told stories about masturbation.** In the humour theory, it was believed that there was a finite amount of "vital essence" in the human body and that any orgasm was "le petite morte." **However, it's all nonsense based solely upon natural blood pressure, respiration, and adrenal responses to the refractory phase. People are neither weakened nor strengthened by emissions of that sort." _  
- by Geogre, _Wikipedia Reference Desk, _15:41, 17 January 2006

**Chapter One**

"_I had two heart attacks, an abortion, did crack... while I was pregnant. Other than that, I'm fine."  
_Amélie Poulain (to her father, who is not paying attention), from the film _Amélie _(2001).

**5 years later, February 10th 2007**  
Harry was floating in something thicker than air - water, he thought - and it was like being wrapped in warm, flowing strips of silk. A faint glow of light filtered down from far above, eerily lighting the greenish black waters. From the rocky ground beneath, great ribbons of swaying kelp reached for the distant surface. An invisible force pulled him down, dragging him slowly, ever closer to the bottom. Soon he was enveloped by the kelp, unable to see the surface or anything other than slimy brown.

Harry pushed his way through the vegetation, wildly kicking as tendrils wrapped around his legs. Bubbles of air escaped his mouth as he panicked, his air supply quickly replaced by thick water. He tried to kick to the surface, but the kelp held him down, only now it wasn't kelp, it was the white, waxy fingers of hundreds of corpses, dressed in tattered, rotting clothing, each staring with vacant eye sockets, their hair clouding around their faces. He recognised them all.

There was a smudge of red. Red hair, a blurry face…

Harry shuddered awake, realising, knowing, that it was just a dream. But the hands were still there.

The pale glow of Ginny's bedside lamp lit their cosy bedroom. He took in her face, blurry without his glasses, the cloud of red hair back-lit by the lamp. "You awake?" she murmured, her voice softened by sleep. Her hand lingered on his shoulder, slowly slipping down to his hip, clammy and warm.

"'M'trying to sleep," Harry muttered. He didn't want to talk. It was the third time this week he'd had that particular dream, which was a worry in itself because he seldom remembered what his dreams were about, let alone woke up in the middle of one. And this dream, well it was disturbing stuff. What kind of mind comes up with something like that?

Ginny's hand slithered lower, cupping the curve of his buttock then returning to his hip. Her fingertips lightly dappled the soft skin above his groin, moving ever downwards to sift through his pubes. Harry knew where this was heading and stopped her, just as her hand found its goal. It was bad enough he had had that dream, without getting randy over it too. "Not in the mood," he grunted, pulling away and curling himself up.

She followed him, pressing her satin encased breasts against his back, her nipples hard like rubber. "Why not? Come on, Harry," Ginny said. Her hand found his arse again, stroking the naked skin. It was rather odd, Harry thought, because he was sure he had boxers on when he'd climbed into bed.

"It's the middle of the night," Harry replied irritably. "I'm tired."

"Harry…" she trailed off. "At least look at me."

He rolled over and she seized her chance, proudly displaying a red satin chemise that probably had more stitches than fabric. It covered her breasts, then sort of slit open, revealing the pale skin of her abdomen, the thin red stripe of her pubic hair. She took his hand in hers, bringing it to rest on her breasts, then gliding it down over the curve of her waist and hip, finally pressing it to her groin. "I'm wet... I'm all hot and bothered," she whispered. "Wet for you…"

Ginny parted her thighs slightly, allowing him to feel her wet warmth. "Can't you feel it? Feel how wet I am..." She gave a slight moan and rolled her hips gently. "Yes, like that."

Harry felt a tingle of arousal as his prick grew harder, but he pushed it to one side, embarrassed and slightly angry. He knew the moment he got inside her he would wilt like that three-day-old celery she insisted on eating. It was humiliating. What kind of man couldn't keep it up? Savagely, he wondered if he should bring her off with his fingers or tell her to bugger off instead. "Gin-" he began.

"That's good… Yes… like that…" she whispered again. Then her voice returned sharper than ever. "What?"

"I-" What the hell was he supposed to say? "I-" Harry grew angrier. She knew what the problem was. Why did she keep forcing it? "I'm tired," he finished lamely.

For once Ginny didn't explode. She was trying to understand, he knew. "Can't we at least try?" she asked. "It's the right time of the month for me and everything."

Harry stilled his hand. He tried to pull away but she clung to him like a limpet. "I'm sorry," he said flatly. He was sick of apologising. He hated how she always played the 'ovulating' card when she wanted sex. Hated himself, hated her for continuing to beg for it, for making him want what he couldn't have.

"Oh." Ginny released him, her voice strangely deflated. Of course, he knew this wasn't the end of it. Now they'd have a screaming row like they always did, after which he'd storm out and go to Hogwarts and she'd tear up her new knickers and down a bottle of red wine.

"Oh," she repeated. Here it comes, Harry thought. It was like watching a balloon being filled to breaking point. The pressure would build up slowly, filling her completely until there was no room for anything else. Then she'd explode.

"What are you sorry for this time? Sorry you can't keep it up or sorry you don't find me attractive anymore?"

"I can't help it," Harry snapped.

Ginny grunted in frustration. "You can't help it? Well, there's certainly quite a few things you could do to help yourself! Like going to a Healer or taking the potions I got you. The problem is, you're not man enough to tell someone you've got a problem!"

"That's not fair! You know I saw a Healer!" That story had made _Witch Weekly - 'A Hero's Struggle - Battling with the after-effects of Cruciatus'._ He never did find out who leaked the story, but he was quite thankful that the full extent of his problems hadn't been revealed. The article only reported _'injuries to nerves'_ and _'fine motor difficulties'_. Yet he couldn't risk that happening again, especially since his problem, small then, had gotten exponentially worse. He could just imagine the headlines - _'Potter's Prick Plays Up'_ or _'A Hero gone Soft'_ , maybe _'Ginevra gets a limp deal' _or even _'Man who Lived's Meat Malfunctions'_. He'd be a laughing stock.

"Yeah - five years ago," Ginny sneered. "It's bloody pathetic is what it is. If you really loved me you'd do it."

Harry clambered out of bed, taking most of the slippery satin sheets with him. As he spoke, he was plucking clothing from the floor at the foot of the bed and pulling it on frenetically. He decided he probably shouldn't wear the same jumper two days in a row and grabbed the first one he found in the drawers. "Why can't you stop pushing me?" he asked. "Why can't you stop coming on to me in the middle of the fucking night? You know I'm actually tired, I'd been marking Ravenclaw essays all bloody evening last night-"

"Oh yes, poor you, sitting on your arse all day everyday. Really tiring! I was up at five yesterday, jogged for two hours, had practise in the bloody cold because the Wasps' management is too hard up to finance heating charms for the stadium - for five bloody hours might I add, took a bludger to my back, another to my side because their Beaters are absolute crap… I'm tired too, but I'm trying to make this work! I want kids, alright? It's what we both want. A family… And the therapist reckons all you need is a bit of encouragement-"

"You told- a what?" Harry snapped. He felt angry enough to break something. "_Therapist_, what therapist?"

Ginny peeled back the covers quickly. Her voice was just as fast. "A muggle one. I've been seeing her for a while - under a pseudonym - so there's nothing to worry about for god's sake. You're James Smythe and I'm Ginny Smythe, short for Virginia. It's not going to get in the papers. Besides, the muggles have all sorts of crazy rules about telling people stuff. Client confidentiality." Ginny started to step toward him, her face a sympathetic blur. "So you see, there's nothing to worry about. Anyway, Joan - that's the therapist's name - she reckons it's just a case of nerves, and if we take it slowly, everything'll go properly." She gently stroked his cheek, her fingertips finally stilling on his cheekbone. A moment later, her lips brushed his like a whisper, then pulled away.

It was Harry's turn to say, "Oh." Such a simple sound belied his real thoughts.

'A case of nerves'. Nervous, yeah right.

'A case of nerves'. Yeah, nervous damage.

He knew his impotence wasn't a mental issue. The Healer had told him in so many words. For a while his fingers had been unable to stop shaking. Now they just worked, but they sort of felt numb too. Sometimes he didn't recognise when he had hurt himself. The movement of most of his joints caused a dull ache - arthritis, the Healer had said; it would only become worse. They saw arthritis in a lot of patients who had experienced cruciatus, though he was worse off because of the nervous damage he had suffered.

"So what d'you say? Why don't you come back to bed?" Ginny asked, stroking his back.

Why did she keep trying to push the issue? Why couldn't she just let it be? Harry shook his head. "I've got to go to work."

"It's three in the fucking morning! What the hell are you gonna do at three in the morning?" Ginny's voice rose a pitch. She broke away from him, gesturing wildly. "Stop avoiding me! Come on, let's fuck! Show me you're a man! Come on!"

"Damnit, NO!" Harry yelled. "Stop pressuring me! Just leave me alone! Just fuck the hell off! My prick won't work, why can't you just handle that? It's humiliating enough knowing that it happens without continually revisiting the problem!"

With that, he broke away from her, snagging an outer robe from the wardrobe as he left.

For a moment, Ginny stood listening to a silence decorated with the echo of Harry's voice. Then the tears began to fall. They were small droplets at first, leaving single shiny trails behind them, paving the way for bigger tears. Maybe there were just more tears falling; she neither knew nor cared. She climbed back into bed, wrapping herself tightly in the duvet, her sobs partially muffled by Harry's pillow. She had tried everything - potions, spells, fertility charms. She had tried to understand, tried to be encouraging. She had tried to look more attractive, blowing her bank account on expensive lingerie that Harry had hardly noticed. They wanted children, desperately, but she was beginning to realise that a child wouldn't solve their problems.

* * *

Ginny awoke to the sound of someone banging on the door. A glance at the clock told her it was just past eleven. "Shit," she swore. More loudly she said, "Coming, coming!" Even though she knew the person at the door couldn't hear her, it made Ginny feel better somehow. She scampered out of bed and picked up a satin dressing-gown, which she hastily tied over her skimpy chemise. After running a quick brush through her hair, Ginny rushed full tilt down the stairs and opened the door. She hoped it wasn't bible-bangers. Or a reporter. 

"Oh," Ginny said, taking in the vibrant silk scarf and the otherwise plain dark dress wrapped around a curvy, slightly on the plump side, figure. "It's you. Hello."

"Good morning," Hermione Granger replied with a smile, as she pushed her way inside and into the kitchen. "You look like you had a rough night. Feeling okay?" She eyed Ginny sympathetically. She really did look like hell. Eyes red-rimmed and smudged with sleep, skin patchy and grey, her body gaunt and cheeks hollow. All the result of the severe dietary limitations and exhausting fitness regime the Wasps had imposed on her.

Ginny had to lose ten to fifteen kilograms from her already thin frame, in keeping with the contractual obligations she had signed on to when she joined the Wimbourne Wasps as a Seeker, two months ago. It was an incredible imposition to place in a contract, but as Ginny had said when she signed the contract, beggars couldn't be choosers. After two years as the star Chaser of the Wigtown Wanderers, followed by nearly six Chasing for the Falmouth Falcons, time and hundreds of injuries were taking their toll. She'd taken the Seeker position with the Wasps as a last resort. It was either that or retire. In Hermione's opinion, she should have chosen the latter.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Ginny said. She fetched a jug of pumpkin juice and two glasses, placing them on the table. "Just tired out. Practise took a lot out of me yesterday."

"Was it that gruelling?" Hermione asked. "I'm surprised. I thought the Wasps were ranked quite low on the Quidditch Tables." In fact, the Wasps were the lowest ranked team.

"That's the problem," Ginny replied irritably. She dropped into a chair opposite Hermione. "They're not exactly skilled players."

"Oh dear." Hermione quickly changed the subject, handing Ginny a handful of envelopes and papers. "I checked your owl depository on my way in."

"Being nosy, were you?" Ginny asked, without malice.

"Just trying to be helpful," Hermione said innocently. She fingered the fringe of her silk scarf, revealing a large tattoo on the back of her hand as she did so. Every time Ginny saw that evil tattoo, she wanted to squash it. It looked like a giant spider. Closer inspection would reveal a ministry insignia and a string of mostly senseless numbers and letters: '_WRN: #32455. B: 19/08/1979. DOB: 14/01/2002. Site: Neck. LE: 22/06/2006.._.' And, despite knowing it wasn't a spider, she still wanted to squash it.

"New scarf?" Ginny asked, as she began to separate the mail. Today's _Quibbler_ suggested, _'A Ministry Cover-up - Jones testimony stifled'_, while _The Daily Prophet_ blared, _'More Damning Testimony in the Jones Trial - Diggory was scared for his Life!'_ Neither of the articles held much interest for her, so she put them to one side. Underneath the papers was a pink envelope. She tore it open and angrily read the letter within.

Hermione, who had been nattering on about the scarf, followed by the Jones trial, looked up sharply as Ginny swore, "Bitch!"

Ginny screwed the paper into a ball and threw it toward the rubbish bin. When it missed, she followed it up with an _Incendio._ A bright purple flame flared for a minute, then it and the letter were gone.

"Another letter?" Hermione asked. She was worried. After the hours she had put into the spell, the system should have been foolproof. "Aren't the wards working? They're supposed to immediately divert or dispose of anything containing obscenities-"

"Yeah, well obviously it's not happening. That's the fourth one this week! Harry- bloody well swore that he'd fixed it-" Ginny's voice broke off as she splashed pumpkin juice into a glass. She poured Hermione one as well, overfilling it and staining the tablecloth.

Ginny continued, "I should probably have a look at the wards myself. It's the only way it's going to get fixed- Oh, those letters just make me so angry! _'Die Bitch' 'You're not worthy of Harry' 'Slut'!_ Gah!" She skulled down her drink, then slammed the glass on the table. "Harry's like a magnet for all those fucking nut jobs out there- You know, they send naked photos and pubic hair and cat hearts and all sorts of fucked up shit to him…" As she spoke, her voice became weaker and weaker, clouded and slightly wet, as if there was some fluid in her throat.

Then she screamed.

Hermione watched, frozen in absolute horror, as Ginny began to shake. First small tremors where her fingers all shuddered independently of one another, then larger muscle spasms in her arms and chest. The chair fell over, Ginny's head hitting the floor with a sound like a kicked football. Her entire body was convulsing now, her face oddly, painfully contorted, hands grasping at herself. And there was blood too. A bloody froth escaped her trembling lips while the whites of her eyes were black with blood.


	3. Chapter Two

**The Little Death**

_"The little death is a translation from the French "la petite mort" (Le Petit Mort/Le Petit Morte/La petite morte), a popular reference for a sexual orgasm. The term has generally been interpreted to describe the post orgasmic fainting spells some lovers suffer from. Also it can refer to spiritual release that come with orgasm, or a short period of transcendence, an expenditure or spending of life force."_  
From the _Wikipedia_ entry The Little Death

**Chapter Two**

**January 8th, 2002**  
"It won't be long now, my boy," He said as he roughly tousled Draco's hair. With an almost affectionate smile on his face, he dropped a Chocolate Frog on the floor beside the bars, then left, noisily locking the door behind him. 

Draco tensed, listening to the footsteps echo away, waiting for more to come. By now he was operating by instinct alone. There was no way he could think about what had happened, what was going to happen, without going to pieces completely. Instead he listened, counting the distant drip of water, his own heartbeat, the footsteps. It wasn't a completely useless exercise - Draco had learned that it took twenty-six to thirty steps to get to the door, around fourteen steps separated him and Granger, and that there was an additional eight steps between she and Potter. He also knew that it took approximately twenty drips after He left for Potter or Granger to call out to him.

When no more footsteps came, Draco slowly eased himself off the bench, wincing slightly as his body clenched in odd places. There'd been lubricant this time, but it still burned like half his guts had been pulled out his anus. He stepped onto the cold floor, rearranging his too-small Slytherin robes. The boy they belonged to was probably dead. Despite this knowledge, Draco couldn't bring himself to feel an ounce of pity for the devious, conniving, little shit.

Wearing those robes reminded him of too many things he'd rather forget. _He_ liked Draco dressed in school robes. Draco shouldn't have been surprised, he'd already known He was a pervert. Though why He couldn't go bugger Potter and Granger was anyone's guess. Potter always got better treatment.

Draco picked up the Chocolate Frog packet, already a bit battered, and gave the frog within a good squeeze. The chocolate would look foul once he got the foil off, but it was far better than eating fresh air.

He was ravenous. They'd been starved for days, the only food source rather zealously pointed out - their own shit. Not liking that alternative, Draco had taken to scraping the slime off the stone walls with his fingernails, eating what he could and licking the rest for moisture. He'd started drinking what he could catch of his own urine, which became more concentrated and less copious each time. To his achingly empty stomach, a humble Chocolate Frog could taste like heaven. Zealously, he peeled off the wrapper, letting the card - _Harry fucking Potter_ - fall to the floor, along with a surprisingly dexterous Frog that managed quite well on two lame legs and abruptly jumped through the bars on the door and disappeared down the hall.

"Fuck." Draco felt his stomach turn in on itself. Hot, prickly tears fell unbidden from his eyes. All those feelings he'd hidden away rushed into him, forcing everything else out. He was crying. Not a little whinge, but all out belly-heaving sobs.

"Malfoy?" a small voice called from a cell further down the hall. It was amplified by the rock walls and echoed strangely, like two people talking at once. When Draco didn't reply, it got louder. "Malfoy? Malfoy, are you alright?"

"No, I'm not fucking alright!" It came out half broken, cracked, falling apart like he was.

"Are you bleeding?" Granger asked. Not waiting for him to reply, she charged on ahead. "If you are, you should apply pressure to make it stop, and clean it- maybe with urine - it's sterile."

"Shut up! I never asked you for help!" Draco shouted. In frustration, he punched the wall, bloodying his knuckles. "Just leave me alone!"

He was a bit surprised that Potter didn't immediately jump to Granger's defence, but let it go. His tears were easing now, replaced more and more with anger and resentment. It was humiliating enough that Potter knew what was being done to him. It was more humiliating that Potter could hear him crying like a child - over a Chocolate Frog. Then there was the fact that Potter wasn't being made the boy-toy to a monster. And the fact that they were convinced Potter knew something.

There were maybe two hundred drips (Draco was no longer counting) before Granger spoke again. "Draco?"

"What?" Draco snapped.

"I know you would have kept it for yourself, but thank you."

Draco started to ask what for, but as always, Potter got there first. "What for?"

"Chocolate Frog," Granger mumbled. It was obvious that her mouth was crammed full. Draco felt anger stab, then twist. How _dare_ she **EAT!** _his_ Chocolate Frog? It wasn't like _she_ had been buggered.

"Where'd he get a Chocolate Frog?" Potter asked in a tone spiked with jealousy. "That's not fair."

"Get off your fucking high horse, Potter!" Draco bellowed. He started to shout, "Shut up!", then stopped. His anger increased. Thinking about it, about everything, he came to a logical conclusion. "This is all your fault, Potter!"

"My fault?" Potter sounded surprised.

"If you'd bloody well defeated the Dark Lord properly in the first place, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

"I did!" Potter snapped. "Five years ago!"

"Well you sure as hell missed something!" Draco said aggressively. "What's this Horcrux they're obsessing about?" Whatever it was, it was terribly important. Draco had taken to pretending to understand what they were asking for. He knew that they would kill him if they found out he was useless.

Potter didn't reply.

"Come on, Potter," Draco said. "What is it?"

"It's more your fault than mine," Potter suddenly said.

"I really don't think we should-" Granger began, but Draco cut her off. "_How_ is it my fault?"

"Well first off, as an Auror you should've noticed-"

Draco shot back, "As a purported Defence Against the Dark Arts expert, you should've noticed too! Works both ways, Potter."

"Yeah, well," the Defence expert paused for a moment. "You should have caught all the Death Eaters after Godric's Hollow!"

"I wasn't even an Auror then!"

"Well, afterwards then! I can't believe some of them are still walking the streets, _five years_ after Voldemort was defeated! I can't believe they let _Snape_ go free! Someone's not doing their job right!" Potter exclaimed.

"Well, I am! And anyway, that's Patronus Squad territory - go yell at Weasley! It's not my fault!"

Potter fell silent. 'It's not my fault' continued to echo in Draco's own mind for quite some time.

* * *

_"People with PTSD may startle easily, become emotionally numb (especially in relation to people with whom they used to be close), lose interest in things they used to enjoy, have trouble feeling affectionate, be irritable, become more aggressive, or even become violent. They avoid situations that remind them of the original incident..."_  
from Anxiety Disorders published by NIMH, US Dept of Health and Human Services.

* * *

**February 10th, 2007**  
Draco haunted the doorway at the rear of the courtroom, a tall, thin spectre in dark robes. He preferred to stand. He could do without being evil eyed or whispered about by a bunch of idiots. Below him, the tiered theatre of the public gallery was packed. Every reporter, off-duty ministry worker, and general nosy parker had come to take a gawk at the now-legendary Meha Jones, the ferocious murderess who had burned Amos Diggory to death. Given the hype in the papers, one would expect a more impressive sight than the tiny Asian woman sitting bound in chains. She had lank dark hair and equally dark circles under her eyes; it was obvious Azkaban had not treated her well during her two week stay. Despite this, she sat rigidly upright, her lower jaw proud beneath a face dominated by fiercely indomitable brown eyes. 

Diggory's estranged wife sat in the reserved seating at the front of the gallery, her posture strangely deflated, head slightly bowed. She was flanked on one side by Ron Weasley, tall and ungainly in silver-trimmed Patronus robes and Fleur Delacour, by contrast effortlessly elegant. Arthur Weasley sat next to Delacour. As Draco glanced at them again, he saw that Delacour's head now rested on the old Weasley's shoulder as he gently stroked her silvery hair. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture that Draco marvelled at for a moment, then looked away. It seemed too private to keep watching.

Further back, he recognised Loony Lovegood's ratty hair, held in place by some arcane object he didn't even recognise. She had been staring up at the dark ceiling for quite some time. He presumed that Granger would be writing the _Quibbler_ article, having nit-picked the Weasleys and Lovegood for what little information she had gathered. Three seats over from Lovegood, Pansy sat occasionally making notes for _The Daily Prophet_. Even Zabini was there, his posture suggesting he was as bored as Draco felt, though of course, the prick always looked bored. Draco didn't know why _Witch Weekly_ would want a story about Jones. Maybe Zabini was freelancing; not that he cared.

The Weasley son currently boring him stupid was Percy Weasley, the prat with glasses. Weasley was one of eight Superintendents of the Patronus Squad, with around fifty Patronus' and additional support staff under his command. Originally a branch of Aurors responsible for the arrest and conviction of Death Eaters and sympathisers, the Patronus Squad had become increasingly involved in the investigation of other crimes, often 'relieving' Aurors of active casework. This was what had happened in the Diggory case, a case that originally belonged H-Division, directed by Nymphadora Tonks. As an H-Division Auror, it had been Draco's case until Percy Weasley came storming in, slapped _'insubordination'_ complaints on Draco's record, and arrested a woman after one days enquiry; a typical result for the P Squad.

The Squad were revered by the public for their quick results. Draco was concerned about the same thing. That, and the way the snotty pricks ordered him around like he was some kind of idiot. The whole set-up rubbed him up the wrong way.

Draco was just about to nod off when Dean Thomas entered the public gallery, walked straight past Draco, got about four rows down and started to glance wildly about. Draco was tempted to throw something at him, but decided it was more amusing to watch him figure it out for himself. Seconds later, the light dawned and Thomas spotted him.

Appearing at Draco's elbow, the tall, muscular man gave a harassed smile. "Thought I'd find you here," he whispered, keeping his voice so low Draco could barely hear it.

"How'd you guess?" Draco asked. A woman in the back-row, fat with a beak for a nose, turned and glared. He made a face back, then thought better of it when she nudged the gorilla next to her. It would do neither of their careers good to be kicked out of a Wizengamot hearing.

Thinking the same thing, Thomas said, "We'll talk about it outside, yeah?"

As they left, Meha Jones started to scream, "I DIDN'T DO IT! I DIDN'T-" The head of the Wizengamot ordered silence, but she continued to scream, "WE WEREN'T LOVERS! WE WERE WOR-" until her voice was abruptly gagged.

"It was just starting to get interesting," Draco commented dryly. He paused for a moment, then asked, "Isn't today football day?" Dean's excitement about the Hammers' game at Upton Park had been building for days. He was always excited about football, but this game was especially special. Dean's two daughters had been deemed old enough to attend a match by their mother. Dean seemed to be really looking forward to taking them.

"Yep," his partner replied grimly. "Kids are pretty gutted I can't come- Penny's gonna go along- but what can I do? I have to work."

"Tell Tonks to stuff it?" he suggested. "We're off duty. I presume that's why you're here."

"Nah, just like your company," Dean said easily, though the tone of his voice contradicted the grave expression on his face.

"Right," Draco said dismissively. More seriously he added, "So who's dead and where are they?"

Dean seemed to stall a moment. His handsome, dark face was unusually closed. "Why are you assuming someone's dead?"

Draco glared at him as if he was thick. "Either that or they're not dead yet, but they will be soon."

Dean stalled again. Evasively, he started to walk toward the staircase. "How about we get going upstairs." Draco felt irritation grow as the other Auror began to ask, "So, how's the trial going? D'you think we could've done it better?"

Rolling his eyes at Dean's attempt to side-track him, Draco snapped, "What does the multi-coloured bitch want us to do?"

"You know, it's talk like that that makes her hate you," Dean said. His voice became even grimmer, "And she does hate you, you know."

Of course Draco knew. He could do without others rubbing it in. It was his fault that Tonks lived alone. As a brainless teenager, he'd seen her as an obstacle that needed to be removed, and his thoughtless plan had cruelly twisted her mind. With good reason, she hated him. Really, he should have been thankful that she had given an accurate account of what he had done for the Order of the Phoenix at his trial and refused to press charges for the absolute hell she'd endured. Typical righteous Gryffindor behaviour, he had supposed at the time; couldn't let any repentant sinner go to Azkaban if they'd proven themselves brave. Later, he had been surprised to receive an invitation from H-Division to train as an Auror. He supposed that although Tonks might hate him, she did know how to exploit resources.

Deciding to push all those unpleasant feelings of guilt back into the box where they belonged, Draco asked, "Right. So tell me about this case she's put us on."

Thomas took a deep breath as he entered the lift and selected the main atrium. The muscles in his shoulders tensed beneath his dark blue over-robe. When he exhaled, the tension eased slightly. "This morning," he began, "Ginny- Ginevra Potter, drank a glass of pumpkin juice and went into convulsions. Officially, she's dead."

"Unofficially?" Draco asked.

"Alive, not exactly well. Tonks wants us to keep a lid on it. She thinks it might draw the poisoner out if they believe that they have been successful."

"Is Potter a suspect?"

"What do you think?" Dean replied. Once again, his face was unreadable. "We're to go and get him from Hogwarts, give a quick interview on the way. I've got a portkey to take us to Ginn-_Ev_ra's-" he stumbled over the name up again, "-Room at Saint Mungo's. It wouldn't do for him to be seen in the hallways."

"Why us?" Draco asked. "She's got thirty-odd other Aurors to chose from."

Dean smiled bleakly. "She hates you, that's why. Though it's a bloody nuisance that I have to be dragged into your problems."

That stung. Draco couldn't think of a suitable retort. He was saved from saying anything when Thomas continued, "Have you seen Harry since…?" he trailed off. Draco supposed he was trying to find a suitable euphemism.

"No," Draco snapped. "Why the hell would I want to see him? It's not as though we have anything in common."

Suddenly, it felt as though huge waves were crashing down on him. Something in his stomach seemed to drag his entire body down, and he felt unable to breathe, his heart racing far too fast to be healthy. He tightly grasped the railing of the lift, leaning his head back against the cold wall to stop the tears of panic tearing down his cheeks. He felt embarrassed, humiliated, that he was behaving like a pathetic girl, and was relieved when Thomas gave him a concerned look and asked if he'd had breakfast.

* * *

**May, 2002**  
Draco hated the Ministry men's loos. He hated how they stank of some sickly floral potion that couldn't quite mask the stench of piss. How the floors were grottily tiled in orange and looked like a house-elf hadn't cleaned them in years. Probably scared off by the dirt, he thought. What he hated the most, though, were the walls. Covered in years of graffiti, mostly obscene and generally false, the walls reflected the true feelings of the Aurors about their co-workers. Following his completion of training there had been various depictions of him, bending for Death Eaters, bending for Voldemort, kissing the Minister's arse, and all sorts of general abuse. It'd pissed him off, but he'd had Nott for company then. Those other wankers could think what they liked. 

Now Nott was gone, and he had a new partner. Another bloody Gryffindor who hated his guts.

Draco didn't want to look at the walls, but he did, out of habit. And there it was. A small, quite lifelike sketch of himself, naked in profile, skinny with protruding ribs and hipbones. His breath caught in his throat. The artist had given him a minutely sized penis, and the figure was furiously rubbing it, to no avail. Beside the figure were the initials _D.T. _Dean _fucking_ Thomas.

As Draco glanced around, panicking as he saw more drawings, more words, and realised why it had felt as though everybody was laughing at him behind his back. He'd put it down to paranoia, but now he realised it wasn't. They _were _laughing at him.

* * *

**February 10th, 2007**  
Slughorn, now Headmaster of Hogwarts, was as Draco remembered him, though with less hair and more fat. As he and Thomas exited the Floo, brushing off bits of soot and the like from their robes, Slughorn welcomed them heartily. Or at least he welcomed Dean. He barely gave Draco a nod and ignored his extended hand. 

Thomas started to explain the nature of their visit, but Slughorn waved his hand dismissively. "Splendid, splendid! Why don't you take a seat?" Without waiting for a reply, the old walrus waved his wand and Draco found himself sitting beside Dean on a green couch, a cup of hot tea poured in his lap. ("Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry about that," Slughorn said in an unrepentant voice, flicking the moisture away.) Dean's cup gently hovered in the air in front of him, waiting for the Auror to take it.

"As you can see, I am currently entertaining guests, though I am certain they would love a talented wizard such as yourself to join them," Slughorn continued, stroking his jaw-line. He gestured to the other two occupants in the room, a nervy young man who was stammering something about a Floo permit, and a round faced wizard in teaching robes. "Professor Longbottom, you of course know, a brilliant man, an asset to our fine school." Longbottom looked distinctly uncomfortable, almost as though he too had had hot tea spilt down his pants. "And this is Marcus Belby." Draco found it rather strange that Slughorn, while obviously holding Belby in high esteem, didn't sing praises about his accomplishments. But there was no time to ponder about that.

"Headmaster," Draco began, effectively cutting off any more pointless banter. "We are here to see Po-Professor Potter," the name left a bad taste in his mouth. "He will probably need to leave for the rest of the day at least, and he may not want to teach in the following days. You'll have to organise somebody to cover his duties."

The colour in both Slughorn and Longbottom's faces drained. "What's happened?" Longbottom asked.

Draco was about to answer, but Thomas did so for him. "At this point, he's just going to be helping us with an investigation." He anticipated the next question. "He hasn't done anything wrong."

As they left, Longbottom stopped them with a "Wait!" There was an urgency to his tone that made Draco whip his head around to face him. Quietly, Longbottom said, "His hands always tremble."

* * *

"Why didn't you tell them Tonks' story?" Draco asked, after they left the Headmaster's office. 

"I don't like lying," Thomas replied. "You know that. Not to Neville. Not to my friends."

"They'll find out soon enough if it gets into the papers."

"I know."

* * *

Potter's Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was for some, unknown reason, located in the dungeons, in Snape's old classroom. Slughorn had tried to launch into some elaborate explanation stuffed with superlatives, but Draco had stopped him. His handling of Slughorn had made him feel better, and he felt sure he could deal with Potter. 

They quickly found their way down to the old Potions classroom. When knocking received no response (something clearly noisy was going on inside), Dean opened the door.

Draco's first impressions were that Potter wasn't much different to look at now than he been five years ago. Still stunted physically, probably emotionally as well - after all, he had practically married his mother. He didn't notice Draco and Dean enter the classroom, he was too busy hexing students. They watched as he launched an assault spell on a poised blonde Ravenclaw, whose insufficient shield charm weakened, but did not stop the assault. The girl staggered a little, then fell over. Potter abruptly rushed over to her side to help her up, shoving a bar of chocolate in her hand and informing the giggling class, "_That_ is the reason why we do not use _Clypeus._" He turned to the girl, his voice lowered, "Are you alright, do you need to go to the Hospital Wing?" Draco sniggered as the girl blushed and clung onto Potter's arm harder than ever.

At Draco's snigger, Potter's eyes flashed to the back of the classroom. Draco froze. Potter had changed. He still wore the same godawful glasses and had hair like he'd been pulled through a bush backwards, but his face was different. Gone was the strangely appealing naivety, replaced by the hardness of experience. Wrinkles had crept around his eyes and grey hairs had insinuated their way into the hair of his temples. It seemed wrong for a man of Draco's own age (twenty-six) to look so old. He was reminded of Lupin.

Dean Thomas spoke because Draco didn't, "If we could just have a moment of your time outside, Professor." Draco wondered at the odd formality to Dean's tone. He'd ask about that later.

Potter nodded. "S-Sure, um, give me a minute, yeah?"

Dean nodded and started to leave the room. When Draco didn't follow, he returned and practically frogmarched Draco out of the classroom. Once they were in the hallway, he conjured a seat for Draco to sit in. Draco begrudgingly sat down. "You're really not well, are you?" he asked.

"I'm fine, you idiot," Draco snarled. "Stop treating me like I'm going to break!"

"Bloody hell, Malfoy, you nearly passed out at the Ministry. You're as pale as shit-" (and if Draco wasn't so angry he would have laughed at that and asked Dean why he had white shit) "-And you look more bloody peaky than usual. You're walking around like you're high as a kite, and-"

"I'm fine," Draco repeated, a tongue of fury in his voice. "Would you just get it into your stupid thick head that I'm not sick! I do eat! And I'm pale because that's the way I come, you brainless pillock!"

Angrily, Dean snapped back, "You're a hard person to get along with, you know that?" Spitefully, he vanished the chair, letting Draco fall to the cold, hard ground. "Don't make me pull rank here, Malfoy."

Draco was just getting to his feet when Potter entered the hallway. He gave Draco an odd look, then glanced at Dean. There was a weariness in his eyes. "What's happened? Is Ron alright?" he asked quietly.

Longbottom was right. His hands did jitter, though so minutely that it was barely noticeable. Trust him to have something visible, something that all those morons out there could look at and witter about. Angered tightened his fists. Feeling lucid enough to talk, Draco snapped, "Why are you assuming that it's Weasley we're here about?"

"Last year - the riot," Potter explained tersely. His hands trembled more. He stuffed them into the pockets of his robe. His eyes stayed locked on Draco's. "Who then?"

Draco felt oddly light-headed, as though he was losing blood somewhere. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, crashing again and again like the sound of waves striking a wall. The anger was gone. He was floating in something warm. "Um… Ginn-y. Ginevra-"

"Is she-?" Potter asked. He was still watching Draco with an angry, almost violent expression upon his face. Or maybe Draco was imagining that. He didn't know anymore.

"She's fine," Dean cut in. "In Saint Mungo's. Look, we've just got a couple of questions-"

"Sh-She's alright?" A rash of relief reddened Potter's face, brightening his cheeks and the sheen of his eyes.

There came a muffled thump from inside the classroom. "Shit," Potter said under his breath. He sounded irritated. "I'll just go and deal with that lot, then I'll be right back. The period's almost over, so I'll send them back to their houses."

Once Potter had closed the door behind him, Thomas hissed, "Fuck! Did you see that?"

"See what?" Draco asked vaguely.

One of the things Draco liked about Gryffindors was that generally, if their name wasn't Weasley or Potter, they soon forgot when someone had treated them like crap. He guessed he was becoming that way too. "We tell him that his wife's in hospital, and he gets a bloody big hard-on. That's why he put his hands in his pockets. I can't believe you missed it."

"I wouldn't know, I wasn't exactly looking there," Draco replied irritably. The full enormity of Dean's words suddenly struck home. "Shi- What do you think it means?"

The other Auror rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair, clearly rattled. "I don't know- He's- He's a good bloke- doesn't make sense-"

"Well, either he's guilty, he's turned on over that girl who was hanging off him, or he's on some sort of weird potion that does things like that," Draco sneered. "And I don't know why he'd be taking one of _those_ sorts of potions at school unless he wanted to shaft a student."

Dean gave him a dark, slightly shocked glance. "My girls- I wouldn't want-" He started. He stopped himself. "Which do you think? I mean, this is Harry we're talking about. There's no way he would do anything to Ginny... but if that girl- that's just as bad."

"We'll just have to watch him. If it was the pumpkin juice, he's probably the only person that could have put the poison in it, unless it's a problem with the manufacturers, in which case Saint Mungo's will be crowded by the time we get back. If it wasn't the pumpkin juice, then-"

"We looked over the house pretty well, there was no other source for the poison. The poison was fast acting, sent her into convulsions the minute she drank it."

"There must have been someone else there. From what you've said, she would have been too sick to get to Saint Mungo's by herself," Draco said.

"Hermione was there when it happened," Dean replied.

"Has she been interviewed?"

Dean was about to respond when the door opened, emitting a stream of chattering Slytherin and Ravenclaw students of about fifteen or sixteen. A few of the girls gave them an appreciative eyeball. One even winked at Dean. Draco could easily imagine why Potter might feel flattered about the girl's attentions. He remembered being that age. How grown up and worldly he had felt, when really he knew nothing at all.

A moment later, Potter invited them into the classroom. The walls were still dark and rocky, but the room was a lot warmer and brighter than it ever had been in Snape's day. There were glowing pictures and charts upon the walls, and all in all, the classroom was quite inviting.

"So what happened?" Potter asked immediately.

Neither Dean nor Draco replied. Draco found his eyes wandering down to Potter's crotch, but the teacher had pulled his voluminous robe closed over his jumper and trousers. He didn't know whether he felt relieved that he couldn't see Potter's erection, or concerned because Potter was clearly trying to hide that he was aroused.

"Let's start with a few questions first," Dean said reasonably.

"You think I did- something to her?" Potter said. His face bore an anxious look.

"No-one's saying-" Dean began, but Draco interrupted him, "Did you?"

"No!" Potter snapped. "How dare you accuse me of- What happened to her? Why can't I see her?"

"You can see her," Dean said calmly. "We've got a Portkey to take you there."

"Well, let's go," the teacher said.

"After a couple of questions," Dean replied. He gave Draco one of his warning looks. "Standard stuff. When did you last see her?"

"Is Ginny alright?"

"She's absolutely fine," Dean reassured him. "She's awake and conscious. No permanent damage, she'll heal fully. Now, can you just answer the question?"

"Last night," Potter said immediately. "No, this morning, very early. I left very early."

"How early?" Draco asked.

Potter's head began to tremble in the same way that his fingers had trembled, almost indiscernibly shaking left and right. "We had a fight. A big one. I left at about three. I didn't get home last night 'til midnight," he ran a hand over his face, "and we just- we just had a fight."

"What did you fight about?"

Potter looked down, then back up, focussing on Draco. "Everything," he said. His eyes bore a strange, pleading expression, as though he expected Draco to understand what he meant. Draco felt the sickening waves wash over him for a second time. A cold, prickly feeling ran over his skin, replaced quickly by a rush of warmth. The feeling in his gut grew worse. He just wanted to run as far away as he could go.

"Alright," Dean said, quietly changing the subject. "When was the last time you ate anything in the kitchen?"

For a moment, Potter didn't reply and that dumbstruck expression that Draco remembered from school passed over his face. Then he said, "I honestly can't remember. I usually take my meals at Hogwarts."

When Dean raised his eyebrows, he continued, "Um, Ginny, she's been on a diet- and all the food at home- tastes-" he struggled to find the right word, lips trying out each obscenity before choosing, "…Bad. It's all celery and brown rice and cabbage. She puts vitamins- and herbs... and potions in everything. The kitchen smells terrible and even the juice and milk tastes... Like piss."

Draco took a deep breath. Maybe he _was_ crook with something. It was difficult to concentrate with his heart pounding in his ears and that odd, painful warmth drawing his body down into the cold. "Bad in what way?" he asked huskily.

"Bitter. It smells like mint and celery and tastes like it's off. Something she puts in it. Everything tastes vinegary," Potter replied. "As though it's curdled."

"That's the milk, yeah?" Dean asked. "What about juice? Orange juice or pumpkin juice? How did that taste?"

Potter wrinkled his nose. "The same. I had a glass of it this morning. Spat it in the sink."

* * *


	4. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Quotations belong to the speaker/writer, as referenced.

**Warning, this chapter:** Miscarriage. See the prologue for a full list of warnings.

* * *

**The Little Death**

"_Stripped of ethical rationalizations and philosophical pretensions, a crime is anything that a group in power chooses to prohibit._"   
Sisters in Crime, Frieda Adler, 1975.

**Chapter Three**

"_British justice is the best in the world. Anyone who disagrees is either a gay, a woman or a mental._" The Narrator (Tom Baker) of the Little Britain BBC series 2003-.

* * *

**  
**

**21st January, 2001**  
Harry grimaced as he wrapped what was left of his clothing around his cold knees. _Cruciatus_ hadn't been used on him today, yet his body still ached as though his joints were being repeatedly stabbed by hundreds of searing hot needles. Movement made the pain worse, but there was nothing Harry could do about that - he couldn't stop trembling, and it wasn't because of the cold. 

Harry had no idea how long they had been imprisoned. The cells had no windows and there was no way of telling when one day became the next. It felt like forever. He hoped it wouldn't _be_ forever, that there would be some way out. Twice he had tried to run for it, hating himself for leaving Hermione and Malfoy behind. The first time he had gotten to the door at his end of the tunnel. It was a big, ugly wood and iron monstrosity that seemed to be both bolted and locked. There had been no escape for him. They'd punished him severely for that. The next time he had run in the opposite direction, past Hermione and Malfoy's cells and down the sloping tunnel, so desperate to escape that he didn't care when the soles of his feet became shredded by the rocky ground. Harry still hadn't recovered from that round of _Cruciatus._

At first, the men had merely played with them, inflicting tremendous pain just because they could. Malfoy had gotten off lightly until _someone_ else had arrived, who had started doing _something_ to the Auror. It wasn't the same kind of torture that made Hermione scream as though she was being burned alive, but it left Draco incredibly quiet afterwards.

Then Bellatrix had come, and with her waves of agony like nothing Harry had ever felt before. Worse than the Voldemort, worse than the Lestrange brothers, Bellatrix was in an entire league of her own. She had learned from her dealings with the Longbottoms and knew that her victims should be kept lucid at all times, so rather than blasting Harry with an unrelenting dose of _Cruciatus_, which became somewhat bearable after awhile when his nerve endings either died off or became numb, she would inflict _pulses_ of the curse, stopping and starting until all Harry could ever remember feeling was pain. Afterwards, the curse would echo in his bones for hours, or even days.

Bellatrix had been holed up somewhere over the last four or five years, silently nursing her grudges, letting them grow claws and mutate until they latched onto some shred of sanity. She had convinced herself that she could bring her beloved Dark Lord back, that there was, somewhere, another Horcrux. Then she had persuaded others of the so-called Truth, binding the disenchanted to her plans with her strange, insane charisma. A schoolboy, perhaps his family as well, outcasts and werewolves, Death Eaters that had escaped prosecution, all as convinced as she was that somewhere, in Harry's mind, there was a location.

They had brought Hermione along because threatening to kill a friend always helped loosen people's lips. And really, the only way to stay alive, was to play along with Bellatrix's delusions. Harry had suspected that she just wanted to toy with Malfoy, but lately he had heard him being questioned as well. It seemed Bellatrix believed that Lucius, snug as a bug in Azkaban, had been responsible for the placement and protection (supposedly with Malfoy blood), of the (non-existent) Horcrux.

"Hermione?" Harry called out. His voice sounded weak and small, with the same tremble as his body. "Draco?"

"I'm here," he heard Hermione reply. "I'm alright." Her voice was becoming increasingly husky, probably because her throat was sticking to itself like his was, or maybe because the last weeks had been one unending scream. He hoped the dryness was dehydration and not something like pneumonia. He felt horribly guilty about what he'd gotten the others into. Hermione had to come out of this in one piece.

"Malfoy?"

Malfoy's irritated voice echoed down the tunnel. "What, Potter?"

Harry didn't have anything to say. He just wanted to hear the others' voices, to know he wasn't completely alone in the damp half-dark. This was different to being in the cupboard under the stairs. At least then he'd known that the Dursleys would eventually let him out. Here he had no such reassurance.

"Potter?" Malfoy asked again, following it up with a worried, "Harry?"

"Nothing- Just- ar- seeing if you were still there." Harry waited for the cutting retort, but none came.

There was a long silence as Harry tried to come up with something new to discuss. Something light and pointless. They'd been through everything from favourite colours to school crushes; or at least, he and Hermione had. Draco had occasionally joined in, more often than not to say something scathing or snicker quietly. It was likely that there were monitoring charms in the cells, so there was no point talking about why they were there or how to escape. Harry couldn't explain to Malfoy that a Horcrux was a piece of Voldemort's soul, though he thought Malfoy had guessed that part. Nor could he tell Malfoy that there were no more Horcruxes; that they were being tortured for nothing.

Hermione finally spoke for him. "Draco?"

"What?" Came the clipped reply.

"Can you hear water?" she asked. Harry winced in sympathy at the dry crackling of her throat. Every time she spoke, it was like two sheets of sandpaper being rubbed together.

"There's something dripping, somewhere," Malfoy snapped. "There's no other sound _but_ that."

Hermione continued, ignoring the snark in Malfoy's tone. They'd both gotten used to doing that. "I think there's water above us. I've been listening for a while. Can you hear it, Harry?"

Harry stilled as best he could and listened, but no, all he could hear was the distant drip of water. "No. What does it sound like?"

"If you're not going dolally and imagining it, we're probably near a lake," Malfoy said quietly after another long pause.

"Why not the sea?" Harry asked. "Or a river?"

Hermione replied for Malfoy, something Harry was sure pissed the other man off no end. "The walls aren't salty. We can't smell brine or anything you'd expect to smell near the seaside. And from what you said after you ran, we're in a mine shaft. They wouldn't build a mine immediately beneath a river, for fear the water would worm through and collapse the shaft."

"Why build it under a lake then?" Harry said sceptically. "There is water getting in - it's dripping, we can hear it. Wouldn't something like that bring a whole lake down on top of us?"

"_If_ there is water running and Granger isn't merely delusional, there could be an underground river running parallel to these mines," Malfoy suggested. "Though you'd think the rest of us could hear it if it was there. More likely it's just groundwater trickling down from the surface."

"I can hear waves, water moving," Hermione said in a firm voice. "There's something near by."

"I thought you said you only thought there was water above us," Harry replied without spite. He sounded like a tired old man, with one of those coughs that never go away clogging the back of his throat. "Maybe it's just your heartbeat you're hearing."

"It's not," Hermione said stubbornly.

They were silent again for a long time, until Harry asked, "Do you think Lyall Quinn is still alive?"

Draco's voice immediately boomed down the hallway, echoing hollowly as it reached Harry's ears. "No."

"He could be," Hermione said. "Just because we haven't seen him, doesn't mean he's dead."

"I'm wearing his robes, Granger. As soon as they got us secured, someone would have killed him. He had no familial connection to Bellatrix or the others and would have been a liability. There was no way he was going home after what he'd done."

That was a rather bleak outlook for a boy who, while not being one of Harry's favourite students, had seemed a nice enough kid until he'd suddenly attacked them.

"Don't you feel a little sorry for him?" Harry had seen the raw terror blanch Quinn's face immediately before he stunned them, the way the boy's hands shook and how he had paused, as if considering whether to release his two teachers and the two Aurors. There wasn't a doubt in Harry's mind that Quinn had been pressured and blackmailed into doing it, something that Malfoy surely should understand.

"No."

"Harry, Lyall killed Theodore Nott," Hermione explained in a quiet rasp. "You were out cold at the time."

"Don't bother whispering, I can hear you, Granger," Malfoy snapped tiredly from the other end of the tunnel.

* * *

**10th February, 2007**  
The hospital room was a deathly white, devoid of all the colour of life bar the bloody spill of Ginevra Potter's hair across her pillows. She lay on her side, curled into a tight foetal ball beneath the white sheets. The lips of her eyes were red and traces of tears frosted her rigid cheeks. Watching quietly, her burning brown eyes said it all. 

"Oh god, Ginny." Potter dropped the Portkey and rushed toward the bed, his face coloured more closely to the walls than normal skin. His trembling hands quickly brushed over his wife's body, as if searching for something solid and warm to confirm she was alive. Ginevra flinched away, verbally lashing out at her husband like an angry wolf with a damaged paw. "Where have you been? I've been here since this morning!"

"I- I only just found out," Harry stammered.

Behind him, he heard Dean murmur, "Where's Hermione?"

"Those tossers made her wait outside," Ginny snarled shrilly. "She has a Saint Mungo's permit, but once they saw that bloody ugly tattoo they didn't look any further."

"What?" Dean asked, clearly surprised. "Who made her wait outside?"

"That's not good enough," Potter added grimly from a seat beside his wife's bed. He was holding one of her hands tightly, a brave thing to do, considering she looked as though she wanted to scratch his eyes out.

"No, of course it's not!" Ginevra snapped. "It was the Healers that did it- put wards up to keep her out. How dare they? It's not like she's going to bite or anything- For goodness sake, she was a teacher at Hogwarts, has two Order of Merlins and they don't even count for shit anymore-!"

Draco found himself agreeing with the hellcat. Snape, possibly the bravest man he knew, had an Order of Merlin; that hadn't stopped the Ministry keeping him under house arrest for the last ten years. Nor did the award prevent Lupin spending nearly a year in Azkaban following the downfall of the Dark Lord. Granger's two Merlins, though impressive on paper, had hardly stopped the Ministry denying her her teaching position, access to the Ministerial buildings and any number of other civil liberties. No, in this day and age, an Order of Merlin didn't count for shit.

Dean tried to tone down the rising heat in the room, "What was the Healer's name? I'll go and have a word. We'll soon get this sorted out." Good luck to him, Draco thought. The mediwizard involved would always have the Law backing him, no matter what permit Granger did or did not have.

"The entire situation is bloody stupid. I'll come along with you, make this narrow-minded idiot see some sense." Potter shuffled to his feet, hurriedly pulling his robes closed with trembling fingers. His wife made no effort to stop him striding toward the door, instead allowing her fierce eyes to linger on Draco's. She clearly needed someone to be angry with. Draco sure as hell wasn't going to let it be him. Dean could deal with the harpy, he had to be used to it from school.

Draco moved to bar the door. Knowing Dean as he did, the minute Draco rubbed someone up the wrong way, Dean'd kick him out. It would only take a few words. "Alright, keep your hair on, Potter," Draco said with a slight smirk. "It's not the end of the world-"

His heart jumped in his ears as those green eyes flashed his way. And suddenly, something made sense, not that he had any time to ponder over it. "Shut up, Malfoy!" Potter snapped at the same time as his wife shrieked, "What the hell is he doing here anyway?" Sweet Merlin, that tongue could strip rust off metal.

Dean's dark eyes flickered about the room. "Look, I agree that it isn't good enough. Harry, but it's probably best you stay here," he said, in that quiet, authoritative way he had that always seemed to put a dampener on any flare-ups.

Here it comes, Draco thought. "Draco, how 'bout you go and sort that out." The nod of Dean's head added, 'Have a word with Granger while you're at it.'

Draco was relieved to get out there. It wasn't Potter, really it wasn't. There was just something about Ginevra, Ginny, the Weaselette, whatever her name was, that made him distinctly uncomfortable. It was the eyes, he thought. And that voice. She probably still blamed him for her brother's injuries, never mind that it wasn't him that had done it, never mind that her brother had been dead nearly ten years, and it wasn't like that part had been his fault. He now understood why Potter looked so tired and old, could even understand how Potter might be able to get aroused over the idea that _That_ had died.

Aroused. What the hell had he gotten himself into? For a moment, he relaxed against the door, his head bent back, allowing the cool air to kiss his exposed neck. Damn Tonks. Damn her, damn her, damn her. This was all her fault.

He straightened up, fumbling with the collar on his robes. It was suddenly too tight. Everything was too tight, too heavy, as if his clothing had been drenched in water. As he walked, it felt as though he was sinking in treacle.

He found Hermione Granger in an alcove halfway down the dark, seemingly empty hallway. Her head was bowed, the face clouded over by a mass of bushy hair that refused to stay in the clip at the back of her head. Every so often she gave an irritated shake to knock the hair off her face, not that it did much good.

As always, she seemed to be doing ten things at once. It was rather disconcerting to watch as one of her hands furiously scribbled on a hovering piece of parchment, while the other fluctuated between fingering the dense scar tissue on the side of her neck, frantically drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair, and using another quill to correct the typed document she was reading.

"Complaints to the Ministry?" Draco asked as he approached her.

Granger's head jolted up and the parchment at her side dropped to the floor, taking with it one of those ten year old magazines that hospital waiting areas are famous for. Giving him a guilty, angry glance, she bent to pick it up, also hurriedly tying her loose silk scarf over her scarred neck. _'Subsection 3, Article 12,'_ his mind supplied automatically. _'The location of bite and associated trauma must be concealed when the sub-human is outside the boundaries of their home/territory. Failure to do so will result in an immediate five Galleon fine or one week's detention in Area 3 of Azkaban.'_ Considering Granger's scar was probably the most sensitive part of her body, he understood the pained expression she tried to hide when the silk pinched the tender skin.

"What are you doing here? How's Ginny?" she blustered, her face flushing slightly. She put the parchment and magazine on the chair beside her, at the same time displacing her lapful of typed pages. Several ink slashed pages slid past her grasping hands and fluttered to the floor. Draco tried to help her pick them up, but she knocked his hands away. "Confidential," she explained tersely. "Next month's _Antigone_ lead."

_Antigone_ was Hermione Granger's much celebrated and condemned magazine, known for its hard hitting criticisms of Ministerial policy and analyses of trends in Wizarding and Muggle society. Those who loved her work in _The Quibbler_ were only too happy to dole out ten Galleons a year, or a Galleon a copy to read the work of Granger's team and guest writers. And to be honest, it was a good read, not that Draco would ever tell her – she didn't need that big head swelled any further.

"What, no scathing accusations against Saint Mungo's officials?" Draco asked again.

Granger fixed him with a patronising glare. "I wrote those the first fifteen minutes I was here. Not that it'll be any great use." She plucked the fringe of her scarf, her favourite colour, Draco noted, with a dubious expression upon her face. "Are you here to insult me further? Or perhaps you want to see my permit?" she added sarcastically. With the tip of her wand, she activated the identifying codes tattooed into the back of her right hand. Immediately, words began to hover in the air above the tattoo and a cool male voice read:

_'Werewolf Registration Number: 32455.  
Name: Hermione Jane Granger.   
Born: 19/08/1979, Royal London Hospital, Whitechapel, East Muggle London.   
Parents: Muggle.   
Guardian: Ronald Bilius Weasley (Patronus First Order, Auror Second Class. Order of Merlin First Class 1998, Order of Merlin Third Class 2006. Silver Edgar Bones Medal for Gallantry 2001.)  
Address of Guardian: The Burrow, outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon.  
Residence: with Guardian.   
Date of Bite: 14/01/2002, by a werewolf identified by witnesses as Fenrir Greyback (deceased).   
Site of Bite: Right side of neck/and or shoulder.  
Bite Size: Large.   
Current permits: Access to St Mungo's medical facilities. Access to Central Wizarding Library, all levels. Access to National Archives.  
Access to Centre for Archaic Manuscripts. Access to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, library and common areas.   
Floo access: revoked. Apparition access: revoked. Ministerial access: revoked.   
Permits denied: Marital…'_

"Alright, that's enough," Draco snapped.

A wave of Hermione's wand dispelled the pale words, leaving only a lingering cloud of white smoke and a foul taste in Draco's mouth. After a moment, she smiled coldly and said, "I suppose that made you distinctly uncomfortable."

"I suppose that was the point," Draco snarled back.

The smile warmed fractionally, though Draco thought it was probably heading toward anger rather than anything particularly nice. "I presume you're here about Ginny, not out of the goodness of your heart."

"Yes-" Draco began, but she already had him on the back foot, interrupting with, "Do you know what's not good enough?"

"I'm sure I can guess," he supplied.

The smile turned hostile. "My best friend is lying in there, having nearly died, having lost a baby, and some small-minded Healer barely two years out of his Hogwarts uniform has decided that-"

"Baby?" Draco asked.

"Yes," Granger snapped. Her eyes were beginning to weep and the hand clenched in her scarf was white-knuckled. "She was pregnant. She lost a child. She _needs_ me and I'm stuck out here being no good to anyone."

"I'm sorry," Draco replied, feeling perfectly inadequate. He hated it when people cried in front of him. It wasn't like he could do anything to stop it, bar using a silent, borderline illegal tear-duct-nulling charm. There were rules about touching and offering that sort of comfort to witnesses and suspects. Not that he had ever felt comfortable hugging wailing women anyway.

"I'm sure you are," she said quietly to her lap. "I've been here for four hours, Draco. Did you know that? _Four_ hours." Her eyes shot towards his as he pulled a chair up opposite her. "Nobody has come and spoken to me since the Healer put up anti-werewolf wards. They just walk past, as though I'm not here. I feel invisible."

Draco longed for the anger to come back. There was something so pitiful about seeing a Gryffindor crying. "I'm sure you do. I was wondering whether you could-"

"Answer a few questions?" Hermione asked with a hint of poison on her tongue. "Tonks interviewed me before she left."

"Nevertheless-"

"You'd like to hear it again. Very well," she said through gritted teeth. "I arrived at Ginny's place at about eleven. I knocked on the door and waited – she was late getting up. While I was there, I cleared the owl depository beside the door as it was full-"

"How did you get there?" Draco immediately interrupted. "You don't have Floo or Apparition permits."

"I walked," she snapped. "It was twenty minutes across the village. No great hardship."

"Did she know you were coming?" He considered whether Ginevra could have poisoned herself to get attention, knowing that there would be someone able to save her present. Though of course, Ginevra's bitter behaviour seemed to negate that thought.

"No. I just turned up."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to see how she was!" Granger snapped.

"You were worried about her? Has she been ill with the pregnancy?" Draco asked.

"No- I didn't know she was pregnant- She didn't know she was-"

"So Potter can't have known either?"

"His name is Harry!"

"Fine. So what were you worried about Ginn...Evra-"

"Call her Ginny, everyone else does, and I never said I was worried about her," Granger replied tersely. She seemed to consider whether to say something else, opening then closing her mouth like a fish. "Although, I was worried," she continued. "The Wasps want her to lose weight. She's already built like a thoroughbred." Draco could tell by the curl of her lips that she disapproved. He wondered whether he could also hear jealousy tingeing her tone.

"You wanted to see how skinny she was?"

"I wanted to see that she wasn't starving herself! She'd only just awoken when I got there and she looked positively ill!"

That statement made Draco wonder whether Ginny had already been suffering the ill-effects of poison. "Alright, so it's eleven o'clock, you knock on the door, she takes a while to answer, so you snoop through her mail-" he ignored Granger's enraged whine, "-then she answers the door, she's only just got up, she looks skinny and sick. Right? What happened next?"

"We went into the kitchen. Ginny fetched a jug of pumpkin juice and some glasses-"

"Was the jug full?"

"No, it was about a third full."'

"Was there a tide-mark? Any indication that some of the juice had been poured off, already drunken?"

Granger thought for a moment. "Yes, several, in fact."

"And the glasses? Did they look clean?"

Automatically, robotically, she replied, "Yes."

"Smell clean? I know that Weasleys sometimes fail-"

That got to her. "Yes!"

"What about the juice, did it smell like normal pumpkin juice?"

He saw a hint of something cross over her face as she hurriedly answered, "Yes."

"You're lying."

Her upper-lip curled again. It wasn't a particularly nice look. "That trick doesn't work with me, Draco."

"What are you hiding? According to Potter, the juice smelt like celery, some type of mint, vinegar and other herbs."

Granger's eyes flashed at him as she humbly affirmed, "Yes, it did. But I thought it was Getterup. Not poison."

"Getterup?" Draco didn't smirk. From the same family of potions as Pepperup, Getterup was a relatively recent cure for impotence. The Irish pillock had thought it amusing to publicly gift Draco with a vial of said potion, though he hadn't been so happy when Draco had hexed him with a painful satyriasis curse. Nor had Draco particularly enjoyed the disciplinary hearing with Dawlish. Or Dean's attempts to make him and Finnegan become 'friends'.

"I wasn't going to say anything-" Draco stifled a snort at that. "-Because they're clearly having problems, but obviously I was wrong anyway."

"What sort of problems?" Draco probed.

Granger shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

Getterup… It wasn't a leap to ask, "Potter's impotent?"

"Not exactl- They've been planning a family for so long-" Hermione stopped to audibly swallow the tears tainting her throat; Draco supposed that she had lived somewhat vicariously through the Potter's exploits – it wasn't as though she was allowed children of her own. As always, he somewhat dismissed the concept of friendship without ulterior motives.

When Granger spoke again, her voice was distinctly hard, almost accusatory, as if she blamed him for the way the kidnapping had ended. "You know it was worse for Harry than it was for either of us." Debatable, Draco thought. "Bellatrix nearly destroyed him with the _Cruciatus_ curse. He is very lucky to still be… sane, whole." A grave smile flickered on her plump lips. "As it was, he spent nearly a year in and out of Saint Mungo's after we escaped the Black Country. I'm sure you'd be aware of that if you had bothered to visit either of us. They told him there were things he might never get back; sensation in his extremities, for example. But he's a fighter."

She bared her teeth in a distinctly wolf-like gesture, as if challenging Draco to beg to differ. He didn't take the bait, afraid it might lead to her guessing his interest in Potter's 'not-exactly impotence'. He hardly wanted to end up sitting down with Potter to exchange notes on their respective limp pricks any time soon. Sharper than most Gryffindors, Granger smirked wolfishly anyway, already knowing or perhaps guessing about the rumours doing the round in MLE Headquarters; He supposed Weasley could have told her.

It wasn't until she said, "We all have to be fighters to survive," that he realised he had gotten her all wrong.

Hermione glanced loathingly at the fringe of her brilliant blue scarf, wrapped around her thin, tired fingers. It was as much a symbol of everything she had been forced to give up as the spider-like tattoo creeping across the back of her right hand. "But I suppose you don't want to hear about that. You certainly never care to answer my owls any more than common courtesy permits. And when it comes to interviews, you'll talk all about Ministry work but not a damned thing about yourself." There was that 'I'd like to eat you' smile again. "And really, snubbing Harry at last month's Saint Mungo's Charity Ball was just as bad."

"What?" She had him on the back foot again; he hated when she did that.

"The January fifteenth Charity Ball," she repeated. "You were part of the plain-clothes security detail. Spent all your time hugging the walls with your back. Didn't even dance. Rather different to your Hogwarts exhibitionism, I thought."

It flooded back to him in a rush of colour and sound. He'd gotten plastered that night and could barely remember a thing, aside from Eloise appearing on the arm of Zacharias Smith. Bitch. She'd gotten fat too.

Returning to the topic at hand, he asked, "Did Ginevra pour the juice immediately?"

Jolted back from whatever reverie she drifted off to, Granger replied. "Um- No. We talked, I gave her the mail. She got really angry – there was a letter, you see."

"Most people look forward to getting mail," Draco replied with a glimmer of a smile.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It was an abusive letter, hate-mail. She and Harry have had trouble with overly enthusiastic fans for years-"

"Stalkers?"

"Some of them. At first it wasn't so bad – Ginny and Harry had a _Fidelius_ charm on their house for the first few years after the war. It became a bit of a nuisance when various people that actually needed to get in touch with them couldn't, so they removed the charm. After that, their address wasn't well-known, and most of their fanmail found its way to Hogwarts or to Ginny's team manager, however, over the last couple of years, particularly following some of Ginny's raunchier magazine spreads, the problems became worse. At first, they just ignored them, then Harry decided that some sort of wards might help deter such people-"

Granger could continue on the same vein for hours. "And there are wards set up now?"

"Yes. They should be working – Harry, Ron and I spent quite some time setting them up. They should be foolproof. All letters containing obscenities should be redirected to Hogwarts – Harry keeps note of them in case the authorities need to become involved-"

"Such as the case last May," Draco supplied, referring to the crazed fan who had attacked Ginevra in her own home after becoming convinced that the scantily clad figure gyrating astride the new Spitfire 680 was dancing just for him. Draco himself had found the advertisement rather traumatising, being of the opinion that skinny, freckled Weasley arse should be kept _inside_ underwear. The stalker had probably come to the same conclusion following his escape from the house; it was widely reported that Ginevra had found a below belt use for the bat-bogey hex.

"Yes."

"How did you contact help?" he asked. "Did you activate the Portkey installed after the attack to summon Tonks?"

"Yes," Hermione replied. "It wasn't as though I could Floo or Apparate-"

She looked so sad. "I know," Draco said, preventing her from exploring that pocket of grief any further. He almost touched her hand, but thought better of it. "Now, the letter Ginevra received this morning – did you read it?"

Granger shook her head. "Ginny burned it. She was furious. You can understand why, I mean, I've read some of them-"

"What colour flame did it burn with?"

"Purple."

This was beginning to get interesting. "That didn't strike you as odd?"

"Not at the time, no. But now that I think of it, that is rather unusual-"

"Did Ginevra check the letter for any spells or other untoward interference?"

Hermione's eyes shot up to meet his. "No." She bit her lip. "The wards are designed to remove and destroy any cursed or poisoned documents."

"Is it possible that a hand-delivered letter could bypass the ward system?"

She began to look distinctly uneasy. "Yes. Yes, it is. You don't believe it was the juice, do you?" she accused.

He ignored her question. "What sort of parchment was the letter written on?"

"It was thick, pale. Possibly bleached vellum or a high density parchment," Granger replied. "Oh no, I never thought-"

"And the envelope?"

"Pink. It was made from paper, perhaps from a muggle manufacturer, in the standard size for a greeting card." She closed her eyes and tugged on her scarf, as if trying to remember more details. "Ginny didn't burn the envelope. It's probably still on the table."

Good, Draco thought. Somebody would have recovered it in the scene examination. "Following reading the letter, what did Ginevra do?"

"She poured us both a drink, spilled most of mine on the table cloth- She was probably already feeling sick! And then drank her glass of pumpkin juice. Almost immediately after drinking it, she went into convulsions-"

"All over, or did they start in an isolated body part?"

"Her hands," Granger said, smiling savagely and furiously rubbing her eyes. "Her fingers. Then her entire body began to shake. She was talking and there seemed to be something _flooding_ her throat. A moment later, there was blood coming out of her mouth. And her eyes, her eyes- the capillaries must have haemorrhaged- they were bleeding as well. Oh god, you've seen her, is she alright?"

"She's fine," Draco reassured the werewolf. "Doesn't look like there's any damage."

Hermione's expression tightened. "Except the baby."

"She'll have another," Draco replied before he had thought about it. He was hardly surprised by the stinging slap that followed. Granger always had been a little free with her fists.

* * *


End file.
